


The First Winter Howliday [Shinaghash Burzum]

by Arnediad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A properly hysterical Mairon, All the Evils of Eggnog, Casual mistreatment of Elves [I'm sorry], Dubious but also strangely successful immortal marriages, Falalamwahaha, Happy Horribledays, I'm kidding, Improper use of all the things, Just a Shitfic, M/M, Melkor also creating snow and Mairon passive aggressively being there for it, Melkor having weird holiday foresight and possibly accidentally creating Christmas, Rated M bcause, Swearing, This isn't evil at all [It is. It's all evil], repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnediad/pseuds/Arnediad
Summary: Melkor decides that he can do Midwinter better than anyone, [sort of. ]Mairon does not approve.Dragons can do that decor thing and Balrogs can party; but the orcs are just trying to survive.Tldr: all the holiday things you can do as a Dark Lord to piss of yourhusbandLieutenant.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	The First Winter Howliday [Shinaghash Burzum]

**Author's Note:**

> This particular fic takes place sometime between Y.T. 1050 and Y.T. 1090. After the Awakening of the Elves, but before the Chaining of Melkor and the subsequent dismantling of Utumno.

Utumno was comfortably horrible.

Mairon was content with this because it was expected and opposite to his initial experiences of existence. He was a being of fire...and so he found himself most comfortable in the roaring forges deep within Morgoth’s fortress. Long it had taken them to form such an empire; and longer still to establish such strongholds in a manner that their rule went unquestioned by those that followed them. They reigned without quarter, without pardon and without consideration of those untested or untried by horror and grief in regards to war. If one-quite unfortunately...or fortunately for the residents-found themselves behind the black gates of Morgoth’s stronghold, then far be it from them to expect mercy or kindness. No such things existed...they should not exist…

… _Would_ not.

The Lieutenant of the black foe of the world was pleased with his lot; not only because he was given the great privilege of overseeing the massive expanse of their armies and strategizing battle plans. Nay...Mairon, eventually christened _Gorthaur_ by those that feared him, was rightly proud of his station because his creativity could reign unchecked. No more did anything he forged or Sang into being have to be within ‘celestial’ limits of perfection...no more did his experiments require any form of temperance or caution ‘lest they hinder the plans of the ‘One’. More than that, he was free to organize; because Void knew that _Melkor_ was not going to organize anything. All manner of officiate, all manner of designation was his to do with as he pleased; as long as he was successful and effective. If he wanted to divvy out the orc ranks according to whether they were stout or tall, dim or dimmer, cruel or _monstrous_...then so he could. Likewise, if he wanted to transmute matter and bring into being a horde of flaming weres armed with swords forged from the dark velvet of Eternal Night...then so he would.

Hidden was his home.

For a long time so it had been; nestled deep beneath the crags of Ered Engrin...though it was not known as such at the time. To the North were the cold, dark wastelands composed of naught but empty tundra...mile over mile of snow, ice, and echoing silence. Beyond that was the Wall of Night...and further, the Void. Here...however, there was naught but what his Lord had shaped; the upthrust of shivering, volcanic peaks. Here was the glow of the deeper pits; the highest of which was below a towering excrescence of slag formed not unlike an egg split in twain. A roil of scarlet luminescence poured forth like the spill of blood; undying its flame...relentless its malice...a rubicund yolk regurgitating that which was birthed in the forges beneath. There was the deepest pit; ringed in black, voidal shadows at the surface. An eternal, shrouded maelstrom, only the most grotesque of Morgoth’s creations came from such a place. To look into it was to look upon desolation, upon the yawning chasm of extinction.

The halls were cold.

Cold but at once also filled with light...from the blazing of torches in brackets on the walls of the upper fortress, to the glow of shuttered pendant lanterns swinging in the breath of the deeps in the throne room. For not only was Utumno a place of unspeakable horror, it was a city of towering craftsmanship. Small on the surface; its spires did not reach to the sky like the fragile...easily broken metropolises the Valar had formed. Nay, Utumno plunged downwards like the sharp thrust of a spear making its mark...twisting...black passageways and glittering marble halls that never saw the light of day hurtled onwards by fathoms...shrouded in twilight...blanketed by obscurity. It was here that Mairon had honed his craft through the ages; where he had learnt and then taught-though not all of it-to those he deemed worthy. Here...the once-treasured smith of Aulë was taken once sworn to his Lord...and here he had risen through the ranks to become his most favored.

Above it all was the swarming thrum of Melkor’s power.

Darkened...it darkened the skies above and blotted out the stars. The presence of Morgoth was a thing unencumbered by physical form; and so his Lord was everywhere and nowhere...breathing amongst the stones...his storms lashing the mountaintops with every inch of his celestial fury. And the Great Throne...of course...in the heart of the fortress; greater than those that would come later...a seat of onyx and jade whose height could not be fathomed unless one was very close. Here Melkor’s subsistence was most commonly heaviest; like the soft slide of honey down the back of the throat but darker...richer. Most would not consider he-who-would-be-known-as-Moriñgotto’s presence a thing of heady quality...but Mairon was otherwise minded. It had taken him a long time to come to such a mindset, of course. There was a time when he admired Melkor in a manner that was fearful fanaticism...bordering on lunacy; his Lord was all powerful and all-knowing...a great shadow across all of Arda...one that brought the mountains down to kneel before his very feet.

This feeling was initial...and not long-lasting.

Instead, with his work brought before the Dark Foe of the world, Mairon learned to listen...he learned to advise, to create, and to oversee. With these tasks came an understanding of Melkor that no one had ever, or would ever again, be privy to. It was not an equanimous thing...not really...but there was some measure of balance. Where Morgoth was cold and chaotic, innovative but cataclysmic, Mairon was hot and systematic, cunning but meticulous. His status was wrought in usurping those who dared to challenge him via brutal and calculating means. Never was he unaware of his lot...but never also was he unaware that there were others who coveted his place...who would take it should he lose even the slightest bit of vigilance or consistency. If he had to rip the screaming, howling _ëalar_ out of a Maia who dared watch him overlong...if he had to feed the burning brilliance between his cupped palms to the fires of the pits to make an example of his place...then so be it.

But Mairon...Mairon learned more than brutality.

He acknowledged this part of him very little...because it reminded him...at times...of his service to The Great Smith. It was the facet of his being that hungered for his Master’s approval...but more than that...it hungered for his notice. Mairon was, at his core, a spirit made to serve...to give forth and to supplement that which was more powerful than he. So when Melkor bid him make a _fana_ with some likeness to the children of Illuvatar...he did. He did...and so it was that his Master called him down...down into his chambers that saw very little use. He held him fast...kissed the breath from his lungs in a roil of frigid darkness...until he could do naught but arch and gasp as the very essence of his being was _afire_. For this was _nothing_ that Mahal would have taught him..absolutely not. Full and hot and panting into epidermis so pale it might as well have been a corpse yet so much more beautiful. Beautiful and terrible and Mairon was _undone_ by his good fortune; a being spun out into the cosmos and stitched molten gold...peeling layers of charcoal as fine and smooth and chalky as the forge.

He learned not to ask questions.

Gradually, of course; but Melkor’s temper was a thing like slow-moving lava. Mairon learned that to ask him of his thoughts regarding their intimacies while abed was to suffer the consequences later. And it did not matter how politely he asked...or with how much flattery; despite the fact that Morgoth preened-or, perhaps, pretended to preen-at such flattery from others...he would take no quarter of it from Mairon. In later years he would understand that Melkor’s need for forthrightness from him was not so much a lack of desire for his attention...but a deep-seated yet forever-unacknowledged expectation of his honesty. Melkor did not want Mairon’s flattery because he was far more interested in what Mairon was thinking...but _Mairon_ did not realize this until everything was gone...until it was buried and the continents were shifted apart and the subject of his service was thrown beyond the Door of Night. Scrabbling in a ruin of char and ash, gagging on the ravaged splendour of their once-Song...Mairon would realize…

...but not now.

Now there was duty...and Mairon was late.

Specifically, he was 45.25 seconds late for a debriefing in regards to the construction of a new battlement and his day was utterly ruined. Throwing a haughty glance at a passing orc-that promptly attempted to salute and ended up running into a wall in its haste-Mairon adjusted his cloak and glared at the upward ramparts. The battlement in question was one of the few above-ground structures he was overseeing in regards to topographical surveillance; it wasn’t necessary, but it was thorough...and he liked thorough. Design wise...he was proud of it; the embrasures were functional but not so widely spaced that any long-range troops placed there would run terrible risk of exposure. A good amount of Utumno’s newer installments were of his design...with a little vision from the architects in Melkor’s employ and the advice of various war generals, Gothmog included. Melkor was-as far as Mairon was certain-unaware of this particular project...or perhaps he was but had chosen not to say anything about it.

Exiting one of the towers to stride out onto the walk, the redheaded Maia paused to once more look up...this time at the looming peaks surrounding the garrison. Atmospheric phenomena around Utumno was different in contrast with the rest of Arda, but this wasn’t unexpected, nor was it uncommon. Cold...pale flakes fell from the boil of sky above to descend over the ramparts in a blanket of white...giving the whole of the visible fortress a frosted, impenetrable filigree. Running his fingers through feather-light, ash-tinged solidified precipitation, Mairon pinched it between thumb and fore before resuming his walk. _shinaghash burzum_...that was the only word he truly possessed for it, and it was a terminology of his own making. If it was anything...it was a product or direct byproduct of Melkor’s presence among the mountains...and so he appreciated it all the same...even if he did not fully comprehend it. Sidestepping some scaffolding, Mairon ducked into yet another tower and took a set of spiraling stairs upwards to the agreed location for the meeting.

No one was present.

Blinking at the empty space before him...Mairon cleared his throat-though, of course, there wasn’t a soul nearby to hear him-before mentally double checking his schedule. The wind howled through the archeres as he confirmed that yes, today was the day previously set aside...and yes...there should be at least five other delegates in regards to the project before him. They should have been present at least five minutes _before_ he was there...regardless of his own lateness because he always set meeting times for those below him fifteen minutes behind his own designated arrival in order to prevent excuse of absence or lateness. This was not _peacetime_. It was in fact, drawing very close to _direct wartime_ ; the Children of Ilúvatar had been awake for some time...and it was only a matter of years...perhaps not even that...before the Valar perceived Melkor as a threat to their precious spawn and took action against him. They must be ready for war...if not constantly alert for it; there was no _excuse_ for absence.

Anger was the most prevalent emotion.

Anger...and a bit of a vertiginous...ugly sense of disorder and chaos. A niggling notion in the pit of his stomach told Mairon that this was no mere desertion of underlings...but something perhaps far more sinister. And by _sinister_ , he of course meant that somehow Melkor was involved...of all individuals. A sneer curled the edge of perfectly formed lips...showing just the hint of a sharp canine before the fiery Maia forced himself to acknowledge the fact that he could not jump to conclusions. He must not forget the privilege of his status and storm down to the Throne Room to berate his Master...he had done so not a week before and he knew that Melkor’s patience only ran so far until it wore thin. He had the ability to get away with more than most...but that did not mean he was entirely exempt from the judgement of his Lord...especially if he was the one providing judgement initially.

First he needed to investigate.

Shaking out his cloak, Mairon hesitated in his deliberation but a moment before exiting the tower to reemerge atop the walk; which was now thick with heavy white drifts. Deciding he could not stay there much longer ‘lest he be forced to hole himself up in the keep for who knows how long, the Maia pursed his lips thoughtfully before letting out a single...thrumming bar of Song. It was not akin to what the Children of Illuvatar would conscience as music...especially not in the form that he utilized it. _Song_ , when it came to the Valar and Maiar, could be as simple as a gust of wind or the shriek of an unrelenting gale.

Melkor’s Song was the rumbling of tectonic plates...the growl of an avalanche...the tumultuous, trembling bellow of a thunderstorm. Mairon’s core refrains, the ones he was Made to recite, involved much of the fire beneath the earth...the bubble of lava, the hiss of steam and the crackling flames of Aule’s forge. All Maia could mimic other versions of Song when needed, however...and so he did now...but it was not common. Instead...he was more often than not inclined to combine his Song with concepts of metalworking and forgery...of strategy...and it had served him well...perhaps he was lucky in the origins of his nature. As it was...he had only to wait but a little before one of the lesser Maia appeared and offered the refrain. He waited through it because he knew to do so was compulsory...and that refusing it would only delay him further.

Physical forms were still somewhat anomalic among the Maiar.

He’d come into his early...because he had legions of physical beings to command, and because Melkor had bid him create a _fana_ to shroud his _ëalar_. Such an order was fortuitous because it had taken him some time to find one that he felt was close enough to elvish to pass without suspicion...but also synonymous enough to his spirit that he didn’t feel a mockery within it. It was taller than most of the Children, but not so tall as Melkor’s, which he felt was appropriate. For his _fana_ he crafted several other more consolidated _hröa_ that served their purposes well enough if he had need of them. In Utumno, however, he favored his _fana_ , and it was corporeal enough that he didn’t have to use mindspeech or projection to speak to the legions.

“Tell the Master I request an audience with him” Mairon bid the lesser spirit. “By his leave, of course.”

Generally, Maia emotions phased between introspection, adulation, and creation; when in service to Illuvatar in any case. With the Questions wrought by Melkor, these phases became colored and more prone to changeability. Mairon had very few tangible memories prior to his induction into service due to the tiered and strictly service-based nature of _his_ nature. The spirit who had answered his summons was earth-based...though not in growing...more in forming...as he was. Bright...pulsating...emitting a low drone that was all-too common with forge-bound lessers...having spent too much time attuning themselves to the minerals in the earth. Its colors ranged from a placid grey...to a whiplash blue...and a very distant...muted pink; compulsion...vigilance...and amusement.

_**”Akašân, ‘rušuršata pathân a aþāra-aþar-’”** _

“-He says _what?!_ ” Mairon interrupted, his voice rising. “Is he _drunk?!_ There isn’t a festival-you’re dismissed. I’ll see to it myself.”

Sensing his irritation, the Maia fled in a whorl of condensed color, and after a few moments...Melkor’s Lieutenant did the same. Shedding his _fana_ was never a comfortable process, but it would take him an hour to reach the throne room otherwise and he had neither the time nor the patience. As the shreds of his physical essence disappeared in an extrusion of fire and smoke...he plunged downwards, through the ever-thickening flakes and betwixt a well-traversed crevice in the bedrock to bleed into one of the many twisting passageways of the fortress in question. Wraith-like...he weaved in and out of towering...monstrous columns that framed the vaulted ceiling where the majority of the host thronged in their dark glory. Here the caverns bled into larger structures for that which was gargantuan...for the balrogs and similar horrors...but here, too, the amount of residents was diminished. Those that remained were idle...neither training nor strategizing...merely lounging about. A few vigilant denizens caught sight of him and immediately made a pretense of looking preoccupied, but it was too late for that.

By the time he reached the throne room, Mairon was angry.

 _Angry_ because he had witnessed too many acts of frivolity. There were the orc specimens hanging what appeared to be greenery from lintels, dragons strewing gold on mantels whilst belting out gaudy tunes, and weres cavorting under boughs of holly. A steady flow of drink appeared to have been established but it was strange drink, and the balrogs had apparently partaken heavily enough that they were being rather careless with containing their inner flames. The _last_ drunken revel had been upon the establishment of Utumno, and Gothmog had vomited molten lava across a battalion of orcs; eradicating an eighth of their company in less than four seconds. It had taken _years_ to replenish their numbers. Brawls were being initiated in the corridors, and there seemed to be a pair of water Maia fucking in a slack tub. _How_ they had managed that anatomically Mairon did not know and he did not want to know. None of this was sanctioned, none of this had been run by him but it had _clearly_ been planned to a degree that made him question Melkor’s sanity.

Not that Melkor’s sanity had never been in question before...but that was beside the point.

Most of the rabble had cleared by the time he flung the doors to the Great Hall open and stormed through. An eleven attendant, however, was tossed across four sections of table when he didn’t move fast enough. The attendant in question shrieked as he traversed the space between the floor and a distant hanging tapestry, but Mairon didn’t slow his pace. Readjusting to accomodate for his _fana_ the Lieutenant snarled as he stalked down the rows of revelers towards the great, black shadow that was the throne….resolidifying as he did so. Gothmog, who was sitting nearest, let out a rousting cheer at the sight of him...but sobered upon taking note of his expression. There was food laid out in abundance, along with the strange...whitish, and clearly oleaginous drink that he had glimpsed earlier. Slips of paper were clutched in clawed hands...and while Mairon could not see their contents he could guess that they were puzzles of some type...perhaps riddles. The fact that there were six or so of Utumno’s minions huddled around each one muttering to each other or arguing back and forth told him as much. _How_ Melkor expected creatures as dim as orcs to solve riddles was as beyond him as the rest of it was. The massive fires lining the walls were adorned in gems of all color and make...throwing ghastly light on the sweaty slaves turning meat on spits beneath them.

Looking out over it all was the black foe of the world.

Corporeal, this time, his Lieutenant noted crankily...though of course taller than everyone in the room and wearing deep black, velvet robes with dark grey accents...though nothing overly gaudy. The Lord of Utumno lounged sideways upon his throne...one leg thrown over the armrest; his elbow supporting him on the surface of the opposite. Onyx hair cascaded down a broad shoulder...brushing against a square but kingly jaw and somewhat shielding the blaze of irises so silver they seemed to glow from behind half-mast eyelids. Catlike but powerful in stature, playfully content but more dangerous than anyone else in the room. In years gone past such a display of limitless strength would have given Melkor’s right hand room to pause; he’d have bowed low and murmured and scraped and gotten nothing but a wave of the hand in return...maybe an order or a query...but not today. Today...the Lieutenant was a barrage of flames before the great seat.

 ** _”Rušuriniðil”_** was the purred greeting.

“Endearments won’t help you here” Mairon snapped, stomping up the dias to fling himself in the adjacent throne. Wincing as the unforgiving stone of the backrest jarred his spine, he amended his statement slightly. “M’lord.”

Maybe he was a bit more than privileged.

Mairon was, after all, the only individual to sit _next_ to Melkor and not below him. The day Melkor had it installed for him, he’d thought it was a test. Sitting next to Gothmog, the Maia had gaped at his Master as he bid him to take the chair and then refused point blank. For a month he had sat in his usual place...enduring Melkor’s stare until the Vala swept down from the dias to put a clawed finger under his chin...so he could tilt his head up and look into those galaxy-esque eyes.

 _”’Tis no test of your spirit””_ had been the rumbling murmur. _”Proven you are...beholden to me you are...loyal you are.”_ A thumb had stroked across his cheek and Mairon had trembled as Melkor’s speech dropped into ancient formality. _”I would have thee take this seat, as I would have thee be mine. For of all mine loyal followers, thou art most loyal...and thou art most desired.”_

Gothmog said that they were married and that Melkor had proposed with a chair.

 _”You’re a cheap sell”_ the balrog boomed contemplatively before he was promptly pushed into a vat of lava as Mairon seethed on the bank.

Mairon disagreed with Gothmog with every bone in his corporeal body; all of his bodies. It did not matter that he had taken the seat when Melkor said such things to him, and it did not _matter_ that that very night was the night his Lord had taken him to his chambers and bid him please them...for many, many hours. Nay. They were not of Eru’s lot...not anymore. And so they were not wed; for a wedding-however informal-would imply romance. And there was none in their partnership...for that was all it was, a partnership. It also did not matter that he was gifted his own crown after that...nor that Melkor had delegated him second only to himself before the entirety of Utumno the very next day. It was political...strategic.

Making it more complicated than that was _dangerous_.

“What is this?” Mairon said after some time, gesturing angrily at the gathering. “Surely you’ve not forgotten we’re on the brink of war.”

“Of course not” was the rumbled reply. “That is exactly why we are celebrating.” A pause. “And, the drifts above are quite high...it seemed proper.”

Mairon blinked.

“You are celebrating...shinaghash burzum?”

“The how what now?”

“Your shadowfall” the redhead supplemented, sitting up more fully and accepting the goblet passed to him by an attendant. “The sky flakes.”

“Oh, yes. It put me in the mood to revel over my sovereignty.”

“This is ridiculous” the Lieutenant muttered before taking a gulp and promptly spitting it back out. “What _is_ this?!”

“I do not know” Melkor hummed, looking into his own goblet and swirling it in his hand. “Only that Gothmog made it, and it has some bearance of spiced mead.”

“It’s awful” Mairon exclaimed. “Where is the elf-made wine?!”

“Drunk” his Lord replied shortly. There was a crash and both Lords watched as several orcs stumbled their way out of the hall. “Quite literally.”

There was a great grumbling...roaring sound and Ancalagon’s head made itself known at the Great Doors. Before him was a stumbling, woozy elf who was thoroughly naked and appeared to be covered in oil.

“What _is this?!”_ Mairon raged.

“You’ve asked that many times” Melkor observed, knocking back his cup and setting it to the side. “And I’ve told you what is being celebrated. What they’ve come up with this time, I cannot claim to know.”

They knew soon enough.

Truthfully, the idealism of greasing a child of Illuvatar so they could be chased about the Hall and then roasted by a dragon once caught had never occurred to him. It was interesting to observe, however, especially thrice...with thrice the amount of curses on his head and thrice the amount of conflagration related screaming. There were now an abundance of greens covering the entirety of the throne room and he supposed so much verdancy would have irritated him if he hadn’t eaten and drunk more than his fill at that point and was feeling strangely content and somewhat sluggish. He didn’t recognize the shrubbery at all, and while his curiosity was piqued, he was more interested in having it all over with so he could go back to his usual duties. Too much of a sense of relaxation was a recipe for disorder...disorder, in turn, was a recipe for vulnerability. Melkor had convinced one of the lesser Maia to sing...and the tune in question was pleasant...if not a little bit too sweet for his liking. He supposed he could have complained about it more, but he’d learned that too much push-back was futile...and the troops seemed genuinely happy. Mairon was not for overt happiness...but it was good for morale.

“Come.”

It was late night when Melkor bid him rise. Late enough that most of the revelers had gone or were collapsed upon the tables. Gothmog was snoring next to the hearth with one of his wolf-related projects. The dragons...deep in the heart of Utumno...were humming a thrumming...ageless melody that made the walls seem as if they glowed with magic...and there was a smell...a strange...sharp smell reminiscent of sable woods...of dark shadows and cold hollows emanating from the greens. Standing with a bit of difficulty and steadied-albeit grudgingly on Mairon’s part-by his Lord...the redhead allowed himself to be led by the arm down the dias...down past the rows of terrible forms that...as of now...seemed strangely homely...familiar...known to him. The Lord of Utumno took him left out of the Hall...down a curling set of stairs...down again past the dungeons where only the clank of chains and the whisper of hoarse voices could be heard. And then they were out...but not. The ground beneath his feet was packed...hard soil and he could hear the whistle of wind from what-so he assumed-was a nearby peak. The area was sheltered...however by the walls and before him...before him…

...Before him was a tree.

It was not, however, like any tree Mairon had ever seen before. Conical...with branches sprouting needle-like fascicles...it was a deep...abiding green tinged in icy blue. Perhaps nine feet tall...it was symmetrical and full...ultimately a very organized coniferous figure. There was a scent coming off of it...familiar from the halls; spicy, crisp and ultimately quite pleasant. Moving closer to it...Mairon stretched out a hand before turning back to his Lord, who was watching him inscrutably.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

Dark hair shifted...like the roil of shadow...over one shoulder as the dark foe of the world tilted his head.

“I do not know” was the contemplative response. “Perhaps you should name it.”

Mairon’s intake of breath was loud in the closed space.

“I?” he breathed. “A living thing? Did you…” he paused again before swallowing. “My Lord...did you..make this?”

Silver eyes glimmered as Melkor blinked sleepily.

“I Sang it” was the rumbled response. “For you.” When the redhead didn’t respond he looked away. “I have” was the short continuation. “Never Sung anything green before.” A grimace. “I do not think I enjoy it.”

The Lieutenant’s laugh was uncharacteristically breathless as he stroked a hand over a branch.

“I…” Mairon stopped. “Why?” Rubbing a fine but firm needle between his fingers until it exuded that pleasant smell, he continued. “Why would you do this for me?”

The dark...imposing form of his Lord surveyed him for a moment.

“I may have lied to you” Melkor said flatly, and Mairon’s heart sank. Before he could speak, however, the Vala had closed the space between them and drawn very near...taken a lock of his hair between greyish fingers. “I lied about the celebration” he elaborated, ducking his head until they were nearly nose to nose. “It was for you.” Mairon was fairly speechless at this point, and the grin he was favored with was as sharp and cruel as usual...but there was a nameless something behind it he could not bear to consider. “You do too much” Melkor remarked dryly. “Let no one say I do not reward those faithful to me.” He glanced at the tree. “I think it could be a tradition.”

“Oh” Mairon said dumbly; and then he said it again.

A thumb stroked over his cheek.

“Thou art worthy” Melkor murmured against his lips...ashen...terrible… _wanted_.

And let no one say that Mairon...once the servant of the Vala Aule could not smile. For that night he smiled...he smiled until the room was bathed in fire and the shadows were chased to the very corners of Utumno. Mairon smiled and it was a thing of flame...of loyalty...of duty…

...and perhaps...perhaps more...but neither said it.

Some things do not need to be said.

* * *

_Some thousands of years later_.

“Brother” Tulkas said dryly as Manwë marched through the wreckage of Utumno. “I see no reason for this fruitless mission.”

There was an abrupt crash and the champion of the Valar jumped as the Elder King kicked his way through a tangle of chains and ash.

“Do you think perhaps you’ve gone spare in your age?”

“No” was the short response as Manwë hoisted himself up over a collapsed pillar.

He disappeared down a winding side corridor and Tulkas had to sprint to follow him, which was rather difficult considering his relative height. Suppressing a groan, he flinched at yet another crash...watching as the mountains around them trembled.

“You know, I do understand sentimentality” he said loudly. “But this is ridiculous.”

“Oh?” was the whimsical, faintly humorous retort...echoing about him. “I do remember, brother mine, you _volunteering_ to come with me. I needed no escort.”

The mighty Ainur gritted his teeth.

“You can never be too careful” he grumbled, looking suspiciously at the looming shadows. “My memory is long and- _ai_!”

“You see” Manwë said smugly...staring at the shimmering...conical tree before them. “Not so fruitless.”

Tulkas squinted against the light emanating from it...a light...a light that seemed to be _laughing_.

“What is it?” he muttered.

Manwë smiled and reached out...his essence surrounding the concept of the tree and drawing it into himself.

“I think…” he murmured...as coniferous needles bloomed across his palms.

“...I think we could call it _Midwinter_.”

...Beyond the Door of Night; Melkor swore mightily.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N** : I'll be moving to other small [ish] works in this fandom but I've moved...essentially across country really; +work. Thanks for reading and I know we are far past Christmas, but, y'know. I"ll have another one next Christmas. 
> 
> This was, yet again, supposed to be a crack piece, but it evolved into something else. I really want to write crack, but I think crack also involves being able to say a lot while writing a little...and I struggle with that greatly; so we have this....morphology of plot. So we have something a little humorous with a bit of melancholy; and maybe some accidental fluff. Oh and my usual word vomit. Yeah I know this is fluffy but I have this massive boner for romance.
> 
> *I'm aware Ancalagon maybe didn't exist at this point or was quite small
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  s-Black Speech  
> v-Valarin
> 
>  ** _Shinaghash Burzum[s]_** -is "two-and-one shadow"; in reference to H2O in snow. Considering that Arda was flat during this time...seasonal designations would be obsolete if not entirely unheard of, so there's no word for snow per say; but this particular Sauron has been working on his little Black Speech side project with an elemental twist.
> 
>  ** _"Akašân, ‘rušuršata iniðil a aþāra-aþar-'"_** [v]-"He says 'redheaded flame of the festival-'" Right. This was just the Maia conveying what Melkor had blurted out to him in regards to a response to Mairon, which is an association of his red hair and his place as an honorary representation of the festival. Just Melkor bullshitting, essentially. Edit: pathân which means leaf, not iniðil>
> 
>  ** _"Rušuriniðil"_** [v]-this is an endearment. Melkor is calling Mairon a 'red lily', but he's doing it to get out of a sticky situation so, no brownie points for Melkor :X
> 
> *Will be periodically edited for grammar issues. I will eventually return to this fandom; but I intend to come back to it with a lot of things. All at once. Some of it is already done.


End file.
